First Yule Alone
by Ancalime8301
Summary: **Complete!** Frodo's first Yule after Bilbo leaves. A sick Frodo fic. **Non-Slash**
1. Default Chapter

A/N: I want to give a shout out to the FrodoHealers yahoogroup, for their inspiration, support, and encouragement. Thanks also to Brildagniriel for listening to me talk endlessly about this fic, proofreading and giving me a few helpful suggestions. :)  
  
  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Frodo was not in the best of moods as he stepped out of Bag End to a cold, grey morning. He reached the gate before he remembered he needed to lock the door. It was a delay that would not have bothered him much under normal circumstances, but today he was already later than he'd intended and even the few moments it took to go back and lock the door seemed an unnecessary, and therefore grudged, use of his travel time. Ordinarily, Hamfast Gamgee or his son Sam would have been happy to lock up Bag End when they came to work in the garden, but the Gamgees had left yesterday on a well-deserved vacation to visit relatives for the Yule holiday.  
  
He also had plans for the holiday, the purpose of his trip. Still adjusting to Bilbo's absence, he'd decided to take advantage of his standing invitation to stay at Brandy Hall with his mother's family. His primary reason was rather selfish- he didn't want to spend his first Yule without Bilbo completely alone- but he was also sure his cousin Merry would welcome his company, especially since his other cousin (and close friend) Pippin and his family wouldn't be visiting until the second week of Afteryule.  
  
Frodo was still stewing as he passed the outskirts of Hobbiton. Insomnia until the early morning hours had caused him to sleep until it was almost time for second breakfast. He had planned to leave right after first breakfast so he could make it as far as possible before camping for the night; then he could be in Buckland about midday, giving him a couple of days to readjust to the hustle and bustle of the large smial before all the extended relations poured in the day before Yule. But now he didn't think he'd get there until at least dinnertime tomorrow. It wouldn't really be a problem: he hadn't told the Brandybucks he was coming, much less when to expect him, but when Frodo bothered to make plans, he hated seeing his careful planning ruined. The wind grew stronger, whistling through his clothes in spite of his cloak and winter coat, as if reminding him he was also at the mercy of the weather.  
  
He groaned inwardly as he tried in vain to wrap his cloak around him more tightly, hurrying on in spite of the chill to make up for lost time. Everything seemed to be conspiring against him: oversleeping, his current lethargic mood, burning himself as he made breakfast- and then not even eating it when he realized he wasn't hungry, his pounding headache, the grey sky, and now the biting wind making his entire body feel like a stiff block of ice. Perhaps he should just turn around and go back to bed and try again tomorrow. It was still four days until Yule, so he had plenty of time, especially since they didn't even know to be expecting him.  
  
Stopping in the middle of the road, Frodo considered this new idea. Bed sounded very inviting, given the howling wind and the low grey clouds seeming to press down upon his head. But he was torn, wanting to reach Brandy Hall and the company of his relatives as soon as possible. His mental debate had reached a draw when small flakes of icy snow pelleted his face, driven into his skin by the sharp wind. The clouds seemed to grow even more dark and menacing.  
  
He made up his mind. Frodo turned around and went back the way he came. It wouldn't be too long before he could be back at home, curled up in bed with a warm pot of tea and a raging fire, he thought wistfully. He would try the trip again tomorrow.  
  
By the time Frodo reached Bag End, it had stopped snowing but the temperature dropped and the wind was howling. His bones ached from the cold and he couldn't feel his feet. He sighed in relief as he closed the round green door behind him. The air of his smial was by no means warm, all the fires having been extinguished or burned out, but it felt wonderful on his frostbitten skin. He dropped his pack and cloak, too exhausted to care that he left them in the middle of the hall, and headed to the kitchen.  
  
In a very short time, Frodo was in his room, sitting wrapped in a blanket in an armchair, facing a raging fire. He gratefully soaked in the warmth as he sipped his tea, having brought the whole pot to his room. Soon his contentment gave way to weariness, his eyes slowly drooping shut. He fell asleep curled in his armchair, heedless that it was not yet even suppertime. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
When Frodo awoke, it was almost midnight and he felt miserable. His whole body ached, his head was pounding, and he needed to go to the bathroom. He stood up and the room spun, making his stomach roil in complaint. Frodo gripped the back of the chair to keep himself from falling and closed his eyes until he felt his equilibrium returning. He shuffled to the bathroom just in time to be sick.  
  
When the need to retch finally passed, Frodo sat on the floor and thought wearily, 'At least I won't have to clean it up.' After he finished his business in the bathroom, he uncertainly made his way to the kitchen to make some tea in hopes of settling his stomach. He still wanted to attempt the trip to Buckland in the morning, though if his present condition continued he wouldn't make it out of Hobbiton. Frodo realized that it would just make things worse if he tried to go and didn't make it. He'd likely freeze to death by the side of the road. No, if he still felt this poorly in the morning, he would delay his trip by another day.  
  
The aroma of the ginger tea reassured him somewhat; perhaps it would prevent him from throwing up again. 'I should probably eat something,' he mused as he sipped the tea. Frodo hadn't eaten anything since his half- hearted attempt at breakfast, but was reluctant, not wanting to further irritate his stomach. Not to mention the mere thought of food was nauseating. Maybe he'd try something in the morning.  
  
When he finished the tea, he shuffled back to his room with a pitcher of water and a glass. Every time he'd been ill in the past, the healer always emphasized the need for fluids, so he brought the water just in case he was still unwell when he awoke in the morning. After building up the fire so it would last and piling extra blankets on the bed, Frodo gladly went to sleep, genuinely hoping his symptoms were just a chill and would be gone come morning.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Cold. Frodo's first feeling upon waking was of extreme cold, in spite of being fully clothed, with his winter coat still on, no less, and buried beneath several heavy blankets. 'Did the fire go out?' he wondered dimly and wearily lifted his head to check.  
  
Bad idea. The motion made his head spin, sending his stomach reeling, and soon everything that had still been in his stomach was all over the bedclothes.  
  
Frodo waited long moments until he was sure the urge had passed before trying to move again. He poured himself a glass of water to rinse out his mouth and slake his thirst, and found his throat was raw and sore. He finished the glass but poured no more-he doubted he could swallow it. Then he dragged himself out of bed, resolving to change the linens, and thankful he hadn't soiled his clothes; he felt cold enough without having to undress.  
  
As he supported himself against the bed Frodo tried to pull off the dirty bedding-he might as well do it while he was standing there. Plus it had the added benefit of allowing him to hold himself upright until the room's spin slowed enough that he could figure out where the linen closet *was*. He tugged weakly at the sheets and blankets, willing them to at least drop to the floor out of the way. But the stubborn linen resisted his repeated efforts until he finally gave up, defeated.  
  
Frodo sagged against the bed and slid to the floor, his aching limbs no match for the bedsheets or gravity. He huddled on the floor, his back against a bedpost. 'I should be able to take care of myself,' he thought bitterly. 'I am, after all, of age. A grown hobbit doesn't need to be fussed over.'  
  
Even as he tried to convince himself of this, he found himself longing to have Bilbo there to comfort him, change the sheets, and get whatever he needed until he was feeling better. The thoughts of Bilbo strengthened him somewhat, and he pondered what to do next.  
  
'Can't change the sheets . . . maybe I should go to the couch . . . no, that room is too big. Would take to much effort to keep the fire going . . . a chair, then?' he mused. The fire in his room was dying quickly, he'd have to build it up again if he was going to camp out in the chair in here, unless . . . that's it! His study was perfect. Relatively small room, oversized armchair, next door to the bathroom-just in case. It never hurt to be prepared. With that settled, Frodo stood up with renewed determination to prove he can take care of himself, even when ill.  
  
He made it to the linen closet without incident, and pulled half a dozen quilts and blankets out to make his nest in the chair. After leaving the bedding on the chair and starting a fire, he continued to the kitchen, one quilt wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Frodo prepared another pitcher of water, made more ginger tea in hopes it would be more effective the second time around, and puzzled over what he could soothe his throat with. But his memory proved to have as many holes as a tea strainer and after a few moments of thought completely forgot what it was he had been thinking about. So he gave up that endeavor and made his way back to his study with his supplies.  
  
As Frodo made himself comfortable in the chair and laid out the pitchers and cups on the convenient end of his desk, his thoughts strayed to Merry and his former plans to visit Brandy Hall. 'Oh, well,' he mused ruefully, 'guess I'll be spending Yule alone after all. They probably won't even notice I'm not there. I never did tell them I was coming . . .' Soon he fell back to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay, for those of you who've already read what I posted as chapters 3 and 4, my apologies. I completely forgot that I had another chapter that was supposed to come before those two, so I'm now fixing it. If I've confused anyone, I'm sorry, but I was confused myself. :p At least now you get two new chapters for the price of one! :)  
  
Chapter 3  
  
When Frodo next awoke, it was daytime. Or at least, he assumed it was daytime-the low gray clouds made it difficult to distinguish day from night. Perhaps it was evening. He hadn't woken up yet when it was evening, so he decided to make it evening, just to be different.  
  
He knew he needed to get up to take care of certain business, but the sluggish feeling draping his limbs didn't want to let him move. He allowed himself to just lie there a moment or two before finally getting up to answer the call of nature. The dizziness almost floored him when he first stood up, but after a moment it passed enough that he could move without fear of immediately falling flat on his face.  
  
Frodo went to the kitchen after finishing in the bathroom, ate a piece of bread and an apple-despite his (still) sore throat, and got a new pitcher of water and a fresh pot of tea. As he walked back to the study, he noticed the air of the hole seemed to be getting colder. So far this winter had been colder than usual; apparently that was still the case. The chill reminded him that he needed to bring more firewood inside; the stockpile in the pantry had been allowed to get low since he'd been planning on spending the holiday in Buckland.  
  
So he went back to the kitchen, through the pantry, to the back door. 'Mr. Gamgee usually piles the extra wood just outside the door,' Frodo remembered. Sure enough, there was a neat stack of wood right next to the door, carefully arranged against the side of the smial. It *was* rather cold outside, but he still had his coat on so he didn't think it would be a problem.  
  
He took an armful from the stack and piled it in the pantry, taking a couple of trips back and forth. Soon there was a significant heap in the pantry and Frodo surveyed his work with satisfaction. True, the pile was rather haphazard and seemed in danger of collapsing at any moment, but he did it *himself,* and while he was sick, besides!  
  
Heading back to the study, he couldn't help but feel quite pleased with himself. 'Taking care of myself isn't so hard,' he thought complacently. 'I'm managing just fine. And I'm feeling better, too.'  
  
Once back in the study, he wasn't tired enough to go right back to sleep, so he read a book for a bit. It wasn't too long before his eyelids began to droop once more.  
  
'Maybe in the morning I'll be able to make the trip to Buckland . . . ' was the last thought running across his mind as he fell back to sleep.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
But that was not to be. A few hours later saw him feeling even worse than before. Whatever respite Frodo had had from his illness was gone, leaving him overwhelmed by the ever-stronger waves of weakness and nausea. He barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up again, and had to lie limply on the floor until he felt strong enough to move again.  
  
The trip back to the study exhausted him further, leaving him annoyed with himself and his weakness. 'I have traveled to all ends of the Shire with Bilbo, and now I can't even go from the bathroom to the study without a rest,' he fumed. He tried to drink some tea, to rid the taste in his mouth and because he was thirsty, and succeeded more or less, though his throat ached abominably in the process.  
  
Frodo gave up all hope of making it to Buckland for Yule; he was obviously in no condition to travel. He tried not to think about his loneliness, it just made him feel even worse. He tried to convince himself that perhaps someone missed him, was worrying about him, but he soon gave that up as well. 'Who am I kidding?' Frodo thought miserably. 'Nobody cares where I am. That's part of being of age-no one to look out for you, making sure you show up where and when you need to. I'm not missed, I'm sure of it.'  
  
With that morose thought in the front of his mind, Frodo succumbed to feverish dreams. 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Well, I'm posting this now as a sort of tribute to my family holidays (you'll see what I mean a little later... ;) ). And for those of you impatient for updates, I should be posting more often now that Thanksgiving is over and some of my more urgent school matters are dealt with. :)  
  
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed!  
  
Chapter 4  
  
Merry was excited. It was only a few days until Yule, two wonderful days of feasting and presents and romping with all sorts of relatives, both close and distant. It was only four more days, but that was an eternity to the teenager, who thought the length of time between meals was interminable. Merry's biggest hope was that his cousin Frodo would come to visit. How he longed to tell Frodo all about his latest scrapes with Pippin, find out what Frodo's been doing since Bilbo left, and perhaps even pull a prank or two, for old times' sake. He still sometimes wished Frodo had stayed at Brandy Hall rather than moving to Hobbiton, but he had to admit Frodo seemed happier at Bag End. But now that Bilbo was gone and Frodo was alone . . . well, he couldn't help but be slightly concerned until Frodo himself told him he was all right.  
  
The arrival of each new day brought the arrival of more relatives, until it was the day before Yule and the expansive smial was filled to the rafters with aunts, uncles, cousins, and more distantly related aunts, uncles, and cousins. Merry had no shortage of playmates; but even as he raced the halls and wrestled with seemingly countless hobbit lads and lasses, he found himself hoping to turn a corner and run into Frodo. He couldn't understand why Frodo hadn't come, so he held onto a shred of hope until he was sent to bed that Frodo would walk through the door at any moment.  
  
Merry fell asleep disappointed, and even then he rationalized that Frodo was probably on his way, delayed by the falling snow or who knows what else. The alternate possibility was that he was spending the holiday with other relatives, which Merry thought was unlikely.  
  
~~~~~  
  
When Merry awoke, it was Yule and Frodo still hadn't appeared. The breakfasts were rather small affairs (at least by hobbit standards-not much variety, though in large quantities) since everyone was saving their appetites for the bountiful Yule feast. All of the female relations old enough to be of help were enlisted in kitchen duty, the elder women heading up the cooking to the teenage and tweenage lasses fetching ingredients and otherwise assisting in the art of feast preparation.  
  
Males were expressly forbidden to step foot in the kitchens, or even in the hallways around them. Some of the lads made a game of daring each other to go and snitch some morsel without being caught, but after one was nearly skinned alive by startling an aunt with a sharp knife, they wisely abandoned that game before someone got seriously hurt and ruined the festivities.  
  
It was in this lull between games that Merry decided to seek out his father. He followed the sound of boisterous conversation to one of the largest sitting rooms where the adult males had gathered to get an early start on the ale. He wandered past several groups engaged in spirited conversation before he caught sight of his father talking animatedly with Uncle Merimac. Merry stood patiently behind his father until the discussion started to wane. He tugged on his father's arm. "Da?"  
  
It was another several moments before his father looked down at him and asked, "What is it, Merry?" as Uncle Merimac moved away to join a raging debate nearby.  
  
"Did Frodo ever say if he was going to come or not?"  
  
His father was silent for a minute or two before answering, "No, I don't think he did . . . though I am rather surprised he hasn't shown up by now. If that's what concerns you, he's probably spending the holiday with his Baggins relatives. They are closer to Hobbiton, you know," he tried to reassure Merry, who still seemed upset that Frodo wasn't present.  
  
Merry nodded. "Thank you, Da," he said respectfully as he turned and left the noisy room. He was still troubled. Why would Frodo abandon his favorite cousin on one of the best holidays of the year?!? He found it unlikely Frodo was with his Baggins relatives-they were all old (or seemed so to the lad) and stuffy. It was more likely that he'd be spending the day with the gardener's boy, Sam. Merry allowed himself a brief moment of jealousy towards Sam before he ran off to find the other boys and see what new game they had begun in his absence. Perhaps they could go play in the newly-fallen snow. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
  
The passage of time was soon lost on Frodo. He long ago lost track of the hour, much less what day it was. Not that it really mattered; his illness kept its own schedule. He drifted in and out of consciousness between episodes of throwing up. At first he tried to make it to the bathroom, but the dizziness made it difficult so he abandoned that idea and went to the kitchen to get a basin. He also made another pot of ginger tea, not that it was helping anyway, but it may yet, and attempted unsuccessfully to eat some bread. The ache in his throat prohibited the swallowing of anything solid, even liquids were somewhat difficult to get down. He would have tried eating some broth or soup, but he had none and couldn't make any. Even if he did, his stomach would probably reject it like it rejected the bread and apple from before.  
  
As he sat at the table waiting for the tea to steep, Frodo remembered he needed more firewood in the study. There was that pile in the pantry, but how in Middle-Earth was he going to get some to the study? He couldn't carry the tea and a load of wood all at the same time, but he was loath to attempt more than one trip back and forth at a time; he knew he wouldn't make it. Even the trip to or from the kitchen was draining enough to require him to sit down to catch his breath and regain his strength.  
  
Frodo tried to think of some way to make it work; unfortunately it is rather difficult to think rationally when your head is pounding, body is aching, lungs are burning, and all you want to do is curl up in a miserable ball on the floor. As he tried to think, his chills ceased and he began to sweat. He let go of the quilt around his shoulders, and as it slid to the smooth tile floor, Frodo had an idea.  
  
Fifteen minutes later saw Frodo staggering triumphantly out of the kitchen, dragging his quilt behind. He had piled some of the firewood in the middle, placed the basin holding the tea pot on the quilt tail just behind the wood, and carefully pulled the whole thing like a sled. His foray into the pantry for the firewood had also uncovered a jar of honey, which he put into the tea to make it more soothing for his throat.  
  
While the setup slowed his snail's pace even further, he made it the short distance down the hall to the study without incident. Upon reaching his sanctuary, Frodo longed to drop everything and go right back to sleep, but he forced himself to rebuild the fire (which had nearly gone out during his absence) and put the teapot and everything else within easy reach of his chair. Only then did he allow himself to burrow back into his nest, shivering uncontrollably. He stared out the small window as he drifted back toward sleep and noted half-heartedly that it was snowing. But he didn't really care.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Hot. Frodo awoke sweating, even though the fire was dying. Snow was still falling outside his window, and he briefly considered going out and rolling in the snow, but it would take too much effort and movement to go out there, so he decided not to.  
  
He managed to pour himself a glass of water from the waiting pitcher, then downed it giving no attention to his burning throat. Still thirsty, he turned his attention to the cold ginger tea he forgot to drink earlier. Once he successfully drank a cup of tea, he would try more water-hopefully the tea would prevent the water from coming back up. He knew he needed as much water as he could keep down; he was extremely thirsty and could practically feel his skin getting dry, which he didn't think was good. The profuse sweating was certainly not aiding the situation.  
  
After drinking the tea and tossing more wood haphazardly onto the fire, Frodo waited a few moments to gauge his stomach's reaction before attempting more water. After all, what was the use of drinking more if it was just going to come back up anyway? By now he had stopped sweating and was back to shivering, his damp clothing no help in the matter.  
  
He was just about to try the water again when he felt everything coming back up. Thankful for his foresight, Frodo grabbed the basin and heaved. The bile made his throat burn worse, so once he was done he rinsed his mouth to get rid of the bitter taste, but didn't try to drink anything, having learned from the experience that nothing would stay down. Then he miserably curled back up in the chair and despondently wondered how long it would take until someone found him.  
  
Frodo now wished he had told the Brandybucks he was coming; if he had, someone would've come looking for him. And he knew none of his other friends would be dropping in, they were all with their families for Yule. Like he should be. Even Sam was gone, he and his gaffer not due back to work until 2 Afteryule, the day he was expected back from Buckland. So Sam or the Gaffer wouldn't find him until then . . . how far away was that? He didn't know, but desperately hoped it would be sooner rather than later. He would just have to manage until then . . . he really didn't like caring for himself while being ill, that much he knew for certain.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
As time dragged on, Frodo's periods of consciousness became fewer and shorter in length as his condition worsened. The urge to throw up still woke him occasionally, though it would only amount to dry heaves, as he had nothing in his stomach to expel. When he had a bout of heaves, it usually turned into a coughing fit, which irritated his throat further and left him even more exhausted.  
  
He grew tired of his curled position in the chair, so he turned and rested his head on one arm and carefully placed his legs-still snugly wrapped in blankets, of course-over the other arm. After his stomach adjusted to the change, Frodo let himself relax. The position reminded him of the way his mother used to hold him in her lap when he was ill. As he drifted back to sleep, Frodo imagined he was again in his mother's embrace, safe and cared for. 


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you to those who've reviewed!  
  
I am now beginning the last week of my semester at college. Which means, in short, that after Saturday, I will not be on the internet nearly as often. I am going to attempt to post everything I've written so far on this by then, but I cannot make any guarantees. If I'm not successful with that, don't worry, I *will* try my hardest to update fairly often until it's done.  
  
Chapter 6  
  
Sam sat happily in the back of the cart with his sisters. It was the day after Yule, and his family was headed home to Hobbiton from Needlehole, where they had visited his mother's relatives for the holiday. Daisy and May were chattering like magpies, mostly about girl stuff Sam didn't care for, like the gossip they'd heard from their cousins and elder female relations. Sam was content to sit quietly and drink in the scenery, occasionally catching snatches of his parents' murmured conversation up front. It had not snowed at their relatives' hole, but as they drove nearer to familiar parts, a light blanket of snow shrouded the landmarks with an air of mystery and adventure. He wondered idly what Elves did when it snowed. Did they have to wear warm clothes and thick cloaks too?  
  
As he was pondering this thought, Marigold stirred and asked him where they were. She was curled up next to him and apparently had fallen asleep, so he answered, "Just outside Hobbiton, I think." Sure enough, soon they were driving through the empty streets of the town. It was nearing dinnertime, so most hobbits were at home or at the Green Dragon Inn, which appeared fairly busy, as usual. As the cart came toward Bagshot Row, Sam turned his gaze in the direction of Bag End, hoping that Mr. Frodo had a good holiday with his family in Buckland. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, thinking he had discerned a faint wisp of smoke against the dusky sky. But that was impossible-Mr. Frodo wasn't due home until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. It had dissipated by his next glance, and he tried in vain to convince himself he was just imagining things, the smoke hadn't really been there.  
  
As the cart pulled up in front of Bagshot Row Number 3, Sam leaned forward and tapped his gaffer on the shoulder. "Is't alright if I go check on Bag End?"  
  
The Gaffer gave him a dubious look over his shoulder. "What for? We'll be headin' over tomorra afore the Master gits back."  
  
Sam tried to figure out how to explain what was bothering him, but his mother stepped in. "Come along, Hamfast. Let the boy run on over 'n check. Better that than him whinin' and worryin' all evenin'."  
  
Hamfast considered this and assented. "All right, but hurry on back."  
  
"Yes, sir," Sam replied as he climbed out of the cart and hurried along the lane. He still wasn't sure exactly what was bothering him, but he could sense something wasn't right.  
  
The snow lay in an undisturbed blanket over the hibernating garden; Sam left the first footprints up the path from the fence gate to the round green door. He clasped the knob and opened the door, realizing after he did so that the door should've been locked. The hallway was dim and chill.  
  
Sam carefully closed the door behind him and stepped further into the hole, looking for something out of place that would give merit to his growing unease. He found it when he suddenly tripped, catching his foot on something that shouldn't have been in the hallway. It was Frodo's pack, he realized from his sprawl on the floor next to it, and Frodo's cloak was draped haphazardly across it.  
  
Quickly getting back on his feet, Sam looked for the owner of the pack and cloak: if they were here, he was here. 'Did he get back early? No, wait . . . I made the first tracks in the snow,' Sam realized. 'The snow started . . . three days ago, my Gaffer said to Ma earlier, so he would've gotten back the day before Yule . . . but that doesn't make sense. Did he ever leave? He was going to, and he never turns down an opportunity to travel . . . something must've happened . . .' With a growing sense of panic, Sam hurried towards Frodo's room. He'd already checked the living room and kitchen; a few things were out of place, but nothing to indicate the catastrophe he was fearing.  
  
Frodo's room was also empty, though there were signs that Frodo had been there. Bedclothes half on the floor, pitcher on the table beside the bed, ashes in the fireplace. Sam went over to the bed to make sure he wasn't accidentally overlooking the object of his search. But it was deserted, though it appeared Frodo had thrown up in it.  
  
'So he's sick . . . but where has he gotten to? Oh, I hope he didn't try to go anyway.' The abandoned cloak and pack came unbidden to Sam's mind followed by an image of an ill Frodo wandering about the Shire with naught but his normal clothes between him and hypothermia. The image made his unease tighten into a large knot of concern. If that was indeed the case, Frodo could be dead by now.  
  
'Sam, you ninnyhammer, stop thinking those things! You haven't even looked everywhere yet. For all you know he's just moved to one of the other bedrooms since his was dirty.' Sam scolded himself as he continued his search. He left the master bedroom and went to check the guest rooms, softly calling "Mr. Frodo?" If he was still sick, there was no sense in barging in like a herd of oliphaunts and scaring him half to death.  
  
To Sam's frustration, all the other bedrooms were empty as well. That left the bathroom, the study, and the pantry. He padded back down the hall, wasn't in the bathroom. Next door was the study, and Sam was certain that if Frodo was still in the smial, he would be there. He eased the door open and poked his head in.  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: And here's the next chapter! Many thanks to everyone who reviews, and a few thanks to those who read it and don't review.... wink Yes, I know there are lurkers out there who read and don't review. I was one of them for several months just a little while ago... but then I learned the error of my ways, shall we say? :p Okay, enough rambling, I know you want to kill me over that cliffhanger, so here throws chapter as peace offering don't kill me, okay?  
  
Chapter 7  
  
"Mr. Frodo?"  
  
Sam spotted his quarry lying in the armchair, apparently asleep. His face was flushed, though as a result of the firelight or a fever, Sam couldn't be sure from where he stood in the doorway. Closing the door behind him, Sam approached the chair and carefully observed the scene before moving to do anything.  
  
Several logs of firewood were on a quilt in front of the chair, a pitcher and a teapot were perched on the edge of the desk closest to the chair, where Frodo lay curled like a contented cat. Sam gingerly put a hand to Frodo's forehead to see if he had a fever. Startled, he quickly withdrew it. Frodo felt *very* warm, and his skin felt dry. He stirred slightly under Sam's touch, but did not awaken.  
  
Sam debated with himself for a few moments; should he go fetch the healer or was Frodo not ill enough to need the healer? He realized that his hands were probably pretty cold from being outside all day for the trip home, so perhaps it wasn't that *Frodo* was *warm,* it was that *he* was *cold.* It was better to be safe than sorry, but Sam decided finally to see if he could rouse Frodo enough to ask if he was all right. Sam pulled out his handkerchief and wetted it with the lukewarm water from the pitcher. Kneeling in front of the chair, he gently wiped Frodo's face with the cloth, both to wake him up and help to bring down his fever, if he did indeed have one.  
  
After a few minutes of Sam's careful ministrations, Frodo sighed softly and opened his eyes. He had to blink several times before he could focus on the face in front of him. "Sam?" he whispered.  
  
"Yes, it's Sam, Mr. Frodo. How do you feel?" he asked, momentarily ceasing his motions with the cloth.  
  
Frodo closed his eyes again as the room spun around him. "Hot," he said hoarsely. "Thirsty."  
  
"I can pour you a glass of water," Sam offered, already reaching for the pitcher and a glass.  
  
"No," Frodo shook his head slightly. "Hurts to swallow."  
  
"But you have to drink something," Sam insisted, concerned. He poured a glass despite Frodo's protests and helped prop him up on his elbow, noticing Frodo's damp clothing and that he was (still) wearing his winter coat. As Sam tried to hand him the glass, Frodo held him back with his other hand as he turned pale and hunched over. Sam moved back to avoid colliding heads as Frodo leaned forward and seemed like he was going to throw up. It started as dry heaves, and soon gave way to harsh coughs. The coughing lasted for what seemed like hours to Sam, but it finally stopped, leaving Frodo shaking with weakness and gasping for breath. Sam insisted that he drink the water and had Frodo lean against him while slowly drinking it, then helped him lie back down.  
  
Having made up his mind, Sam made sure Frodo was as comfortable as possible and stood. "I'm going to get the healer," he stated, watching for Frodo's reaction. When he merely nodded in assent, Sam knew Frodo was more ill than he would ever verbally admit. Frodo's resistance to bringing in the healer was a reliable measure of how he felt: the better he felt, the more he resisted. His complete lack of protest was more worrying to Sam than anything he had seen. Sam hurried out the door, headed toward Hobbiton. He stopped briefly at his home, to explain his delay to his father and gain permission to stay the night at Bag End, which was granted without hesitation. As Sam continued on to Hobbiton, his gaffer headed up to Bag End to do what he could for the ill young master. 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! And don't worry, this story *will* have an ending; as a matter of fact, I'm working on it as we speak... :) It's looking like I will be able to have the entire story posted by the end of the weekend, since I now only have one exam left to study for-on saturday! ick-so I can devote time to this. Hm, which would I rather work on: macroeconomics or fic? Macroeconomics... fic.... weighs choices I do believe working on fic wins hands down. :p Anyway, happy reading!  
  
Chapter 8  
  
Dusk was deepening and a few brave stars had begun to peek out as Sam made his way back to Bag End. He'd been forced to leave a note-the healer was out on another call-and Sam once again sincerely thanked Mr. Bilbo for teaching him his letters.  
  
He found his gaffer stoking the fire in the kitchen, having already attended to the study and Mr. Frodo's room. Sam changed the linens on Mr. Frodo's bed and was headed to the study, intent on getting Mr. Frodo into his bed, when there was a knock at the door. Since his gaffer was still attending to the various fires, Sam answered it.  
  
While he expected to see Dr. Proudfoot standing on the stoop, he instead found the midwife, Lyonola Chubb, waiting to enter the smial huge medical bag in hand. As he ushered her in, she seemed to anticipate his question, and as he helped her take off her cloak, she explained, "Dr. Proudfoot is busy with other patients. What with the cold and everyone being out and about for the holiday, several families are having bouts with the flu and such. I offered to come by and do what I could until he had a moment to see Master Baggins himself." It made sense, and Sam really didn't mind *who* came to see to Mr. Frodo, just as long as *someone* did.  
  
Sam escorted Miss Chubb back to the study where Frodo was still sleeping in his chair. "I was just about to take him to his bed. Do you want to look at him here or move him to bed?" Sam asked the healer.  
  
She answered, "Leave him here for a moment so I can get a feel for things-" she gestured at Frodo and his setup of supplies-"and then we should move him to his bed. It will be easier to look at him there." So Sam left the midwife to herself for a few moments, going about the room and tidying up random things, unsure of what else he should be doing. Lyonola noted with amusement the firewood on the quilt-she figured out what Frodo had done and gave him some credit for ingenuity. The assorted teapots and water pitchers were a good sign-he obviously knew of the need for fluids-though they still appeared mostly full, which concerned her. Finally she directed her attention to the ill hobbit himself and knelt in front of his chair.  
  
The patient appeared to be sleeping, though his lips were moving soundlessly, murmuring something she strained to catch but could not. He looked flushed; Lyonola put a hand to his cheek-distressingly warm. She stood and beckoned to Sam. "All right, we should move him to his bed now."  
  
Sam nodded in assent and lifted Frodo's shoulders, Lyonola grabbed his ankles, and they carried him out the door. On the way to the master bedroom, they met the Gaffer. "Hello, Master Gamgee," Miss Chubb greeted him.  
  
"G'day, miss," the Gaffer replied as he gently took Frodo in his arms and continued toward the bedroom. "The doctor busy?"  
  
"Oh, yes," and she explained as they entered the bedroom. "With the cold and all, you know how it is." The Gaffer nodded in agreement as he carefully laid Frodo down, then stepped back to allow the midwife room to work. He and Sam hovered nearby, watching everything, anxious, but trying to stay out of the way as much as possible. Lyonola placed her bag on the table next to the bed and began to carefully look over the sick, sleeping hobbit. She noted with concern the patient's rapid heartrate and shallow breathing; combined with the dryness of his skin and the height of his fever, she knew he was not in the best shape.  
  
"Perhaps one or both of you can answer a few questions for me?" Lyonola asked, glancing over her shoulder at them as she poked and prodded Frodo. The two males gave their mute agreement by nodding.  
  
"Do you have any idea how long he's been sick?"  
  
"We've been gone so I don't know for sure, but he was supposed to leave for Buckland four days before Yule, and obviously, he didn't," the Gaffer supplied.  
  
"He tried to go-he's wearing his coat," Sam pointed out.  
  
Lyonola nodded absently. 'About a week, then,' she mused. "What have you noticed of his symptoms?"  
  
"He threw up, more than once-he had a basin under the chair and he messed his bedclothes. And when I woke him earlier, he seemed like he was going to throw up, but nothing happened, and then he coughed for a really long time," Sam informed her.  
  
"Did he have anything to drink that you know of?" She inquired as she pinched the skin on the back of Frodo's hand, and when the skin didn't return to position very quickly, she knew that even if he had drunk anything, it wouldn't have been enough.  
  
The Gaffer shook his head, but Sam piped in, "Yes, ma'am. I made him drink some water after he coughed so bad."  
  
"Good, good," she patted Sam's arm. "It sounds like he had the flu that's going around."  
  
"Had? Wouldn't he still have it?" Sam asked, confused.  
  
"Well, I think that's what it started out as. He may still have some of the symptoms, but since he's gone without treatment for a while, he has probably developed other problems."  
  
'That's the understatement of the week,' she thought to herself wryly. 'No doubt about it, he *has* developed at least one other problem, and it's worse than the flu alone could ever be.' There was silence for a moment as she considered what to do next. "All right, we should probably wake him now, so I can ask him how he's feeling."  
  
After a few moments, they succeeded in waking Frodo, who looked confused and didn't seem to recognize where he was.  
  
"Good evening, Master Baggins. How are you feeling?" Lyonola knelt down next to the bed so he wouldn't have to look up at her.  
  
He had to swallow a few times before he managed, "Hot . . . thirsty . . . tired . . ." He trailed off and closed his eyes. "Dizzy . . ."  
  
"Would you like me to get you a glass of water?"  
  
He shook his head slightly. "Throat hurts . . ." he murmured weakly.  
  
Lyonola patted his shoulder lightly. "That's all right. I'll give you something to soothe your throat and help with the dizziness. Nothing to worry about. Are you still feeling nauseous or anything?" she continued.  
  
But Frodo didn't answer.  
  
"Why isn't he talking anymore?" asked Sam, understandably concerned.  
  
"He probably fainted." Lyonola put her hand to Frodo's forehead-it felt even hotter than before, if that was possible. She checked his eyes, they were dilated and unresponsive even when she brought a candle closer. Lyonola appeared calm and sure of herself, but inwardly she was panicking. 'I don't like this one bit. It's not good at all! He's severely dehydrated, which is driving up the fever. If I don't do something quickly, that *will* kill him. But I'm not sure what to do . . . Dr. Proudfoot should be the one to do this . . .' She then scolded herself harshly. 'Get a hold of yourself! Being wishy-washy won't help the poor guy. Just think about it: you can give him water and you can try to bring down the fever.' She moved a few steps away from the bed and asked Hamfast, "Do you have any ice?"  
  
He shook his head. "No, miss."  
  
She sighed in frustration. "He needs liquids, and crushed ice would be the easiest way, since he has a sore throat . . ."  
  
They both stood for a few moments in thought, until Sam asked, "What about snow?"  
  
His question surprised the two adult hobbits, but a slow grin spread across the healer's face as she considered. "That should work wonderfully! Thank you, Samwise. Would you go get a bowlful of clean snow then, please?"  
  
Sam hurried off to do so, and Lyonola turned back to the Gaffer. "I didn't want to say this in front of your young one, but I can't predict if young Master Baggins will recover or not. Even if he does, the high fever and dehydration may have done damage . . . And if he's been like this for any extended length of time, there's the possibility that nothing we could do would help. . . "  
  
The Gaffer visibly paled a bit when he grasped the implication of her words. "What can we do for him now?"  
  
She nervously tucked the strands of hair that had fallen out of her braid behind her ear and said, "I'm really not the best one to handle cases like this, but we should probably bring his fever down. Ordinarily I'd suggest using snow or very cold water-that would work most quickly, but since we don't know how long he's been like this, I don't want to take the chance that his system may be too weak to handle the shock of the sudden temperature change. I suppose we'll have to use a lukewarm water bath; it'll take longer, and we might have to do it more than once to keep the fever down, but what matters is that we do something quickly."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
When Sam returned with a bowl of snow, he sat by the bed and diligently gave Frodo small spoonfuls of it while his Gaffer and the midwife prepared the bath. Once it was ready, they carefully undressed Frodo before carrying him to the waiting tub in the bathroom. Sam watched from his perch by Frodo's head and momentarily wondered if Frodo would be embarrassed to know the midwife was taking off his clothes and seeing him naked. Sam's mum had done the same occasionally when he was sick, but your mum seeing you is totally different than having a healer-and the *midwife* no less!-see you naked.  
  
Once Frodo was settled in the nearly chest-high water, Lyonola put a folded towel behind his head for padding, and to keep him from sliding forward and going underwater. Sam resumed his spot by Frodo's head; Lyonola settled next to him and used a wet towel to rub down the parts of Frodo's body not immersed. The Gaffer hovered nearby, occasionally taking out a bucketful of water or dumping in some water to adjust the temperature as Lyonola directed.  
  
Aside from the slosh of water and the crackle of the small fire, the room was silent, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Bell Gamgee arrived soon after the start of their vigil, after having put her children to bed, to see if anything was needed or if she could help in any way. She had also intended to send Sam home, but since he was being helpful and wasn't in the way, she said nothing of the matter. Bell conversed with the midwife for a moment, then left, ruffling her son's hair as she passed. She returned a short while later. "I had some chicken broth in the cold shed, so it's on the stove to thaw. Is there anything else I can get for you?"  
  
Lyonola sat back and considered. "No, thank you, ma'am. I think we're all right for the moment."  
  
After a few words with her husband, Bell again left, and the thick silence descended upon the room once more.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
After over an hour passed with no response from Frodo, no change in his temperature, Lyonola leaned over and whispered in the Gaffer's ear. He nodded, and silently left the room. 'Hopefully he can track down Dr. Proudfoot; he'd know what to do now, but I've run out of ideas . . . why isn't this working? It should be working! I couldn't stand it if we lost him just because I didn't know what to do! . . .'  
  
Sam sat quietly, observing all but showing no sign of it while still spooning snow into Mr. Frodo's mouth. When he ran out, for the third time, he left the room after signaling to Miss Chubb what he was doing. Once outside in the bitterly cold night, he wondered. Why was it taking so long? Wasn't something supposed to happen? He saw the concerned looks on the faces of his gaffer and the midwife, and wondered what those looks might mean for Mr. Frodo. Wasn't he going to get better? The thought flashed across Sam's mind that maybe Mr. Frodo would die, and involuntary tears sprang to his eyes. 'No, don't think that!' he scolded himself angrily as he scooped up yet more snow and hurried back into the hole. 'He'll be fine; just you wait and see.'  
  
About half an hour later, Hamfast returned. Alone.  
  
He shrugged and explained in a hushed whisper that no one knew where the doctor was presently. "He didn't leave a note, and the apothecary hasn't heard from him."  
  
Lyonola nodded sorrowfully and whispered back, "I was afraid of that. We'll just have to do the best we can, then." They resumed their former positions, anxious eyes carefully combing for any sign that the bath was doing its job.  
  
It was another tense half-hour before Frodo's temperature seemed to subside a little; not long after that Frodo sighed and shifted a little. Lyonola restrained herself from clapping her hands in glee at this first response out of the gravely ill hobbit in over two hours. The atmosphere in the room seemed lighter after that, even though it took until dawn for his temperature to fall enough that the healer deemed it time to take him out of the tub. Sam had almost fallen asleep in his chair several times during the long wait, but he forced himself to keep awake and continue spooning the snow, for Mr. Frodo's sake.  
  
When they had gotten Frodo dried off, dressed in a nightshirt, and tucked into his bed, the Gaffer decided it was time that Samwise go to bed. At first he tried to convince the lad to return home to his own bed, but Sam looked so downcast that he relented and told him to go sleep in one of the guestrooms. Sam wasn't thrilled with that idea-he wanted to stay and help take care of Mr. Frodo-but when threatened with going home, sleeping in a guestroom was definitely the better option.  
  
So at about the time of elevensies, there were three hobbits sleeping peacefully at Bag End because Lyonola Chubb had fallen asleep in a chair next to Frodo's bed. The Gaffer alone remained awake, puttering about, occasionally checking in on the young master in case he needed to wake the healer.  
  
Now that his fever had abated Frodo slept soundly ; they'd also managed to feed him some broth in addition to trickling snow water down his throat, so his condition was much improved over what it had been not so long ago. He didn't awaken until afternoon tea, and that was only because the liquids in his system were making themselves known.  
  
Dr. Proudfoot came by around lunchtime and praised Lyonola for what she'd done. "There's nothing I could've done beyond what you did, so rest easy on that," the doctor assured the midwife and the Gaffer. "He'll need complete bed rest for at least a week and lots of fluids, even when his stomach can handle solid food again. He may be weak for quite a while yet- one can't expect to come that close to death without any ill effects-but he should eventually be able to make a full recovery. There is a chance that the prolonged fever and dehydration have affected some things, but only time will tell." He recommended a few remedies in case the nausea was still a problem, but otherwise left Frodo's care in Lyonola's capable hands. 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Next chapter! And good news: I *will* be able to post the next (and sadly, last) chapter before I leave for home Saturday afternoon. Yay! :)  
  
Many thanks for all of the enthusiastic reviews!  
  
Chapter 9  
  
Frodo slept for most of the next few days, exhausted from his battle with the fever and dehydration. When he was awake, he acted normally, though feeling rather weak and tired, with no sign of any lasting problems as a result of his illness. This was a relief to both the Gaffer and the midwife.  
  
Lyonola Chubb stayed at Bag End for the first three days, wanting to be on hand in case of a relapse or recurrence of the high fever. She had not yet decided when she thought it would be safe to leave her patient, but the decision was made for her when one of the Hobbiton ladies went into labor. Before she left, she gave Sam instructions to make sure Frodo drank lots of fluids, and keep him in bed for at *least* three more days, just in case.  
  
Sam was allowed to assume the care of Frodo as his primary responsibility, though the Gaffer or Mrs. Gamgee would check up on the two from time to time throughout the day. Sam carefully minded all of Miss Chubb's instructions, much to Frodo's chagrin. He fussed over Frodo constantly, virtually shoving all manner of liquids down his throat. Luckily for him, Frodo hadn't thrown up again, but by the end of the second day after the midwife left, Frodo had had enough.  
  
"Sam! Stop already!" he cried in frustration as Sam tried to persuade him into having more tea. "You've made me have soup and tea for all six meals today and-" he cut off Sam's objection with a wave of his hand- "and you've forced me to drink gallons more of water and tea and anything else liquid. I am simply demanding not to be given any more! I would like to be able to sleep without have to go to the bathroom half a dozen times in the middle of the night!"  
  
Sam blushed and looked down at his hands, somewhat abashed. "I-I guess you have a point, Mr. Frodo," he admitted.  
  
Frodo laughed a little and pulled Sam down to sit next to him on the bed. "Honestly, Sam, I appreciate all you've been doing for me; I wish I could repay you somehow. But I am getting better, so you don't always have to wait on me hand and foot, okay?" He made Sam look him straight in the eye to make sure his words were taken the way he intended. Sam nodded, and Frodo hugged him slightly. "You look tired. Why don't you go to bed?" Sam rubbed a hand across his eyes and started to say something but yawned instead. "I think that's all the answer I need," Frodo said with a smirk. He patted the half of his bed he wasn't currently occupying. "Here, make yourself comfortable. There's room enough for both of us. And I'll be right back," he said, slipping out of bed and heading, of course, to the bathroom. He really *was* feeling better; not entirely back to normal, but no longer absolutely miserable.  
  
By the time Frodo returned to his room, Sam was already fast asleep. He had wrapped himself in one of the quilts and lay very close to the edge on the other side of Frodo's bed, having pushed all of the blankets on the bed over to Frodo's side. 'Silly hobbit,' Frodo chuckled to himself as he climbed back into bed, rearranging the blankets so they covered both himself and Sam. Soon he, too, was sound asleep.  
  
Frodo awoke to the sound of a shrill wind whistling through the window and rattling the windowpanes. In the dim light of early morning, he could see the heavy clouds that heralded snow and bad weather. 'The Gaffer was right,' he mused. It came as no surprise; the Gaffer was hardly ever wrong when it came to weather. Two days ago he'd predicted a nasty winter storm would come within a few days' time, so he'd prepared for it, stockpiling firewood and other basic supplies at both his own home and Bag End. Frodo shivered a bit just listening to the wind, and scooted closer to Sam, to share in his warmth. The younger hobbit was sound asleep, seemingly unbothered by the wind's mournful wailing. Frodo soon followed his example.  
  
Both were startled awake about midmorning by a loud bang echoing through the smial. Frodo's first thought-'What was *that*?!'-was followed closely by a second-'Why is Sam still in bed?' He spoke the first aloud. "What was *that*?!"  
  
"A shutter pro'ly came unlatched," Sam responded drowsily a moment later. They both listened in silence to the insistent staccato the shutter pounded against the side of the hole. Frodo took the time to puzzle out the mystery of why Sam was still in bed. 'He's usually up at about sunrise, but of course I can't blame him if he wanted to sleep in-he looked really tired last night...though habits are hard to break ...' He rolled over to face the subject of his train of thought and noticed Sam was shivering. The fire had burned low, but the air was still warm enough; he still had the blankets and quilts over him, so why was he cold? Then Frodo realized with a sinking heart what was wrong. He reached out and touched Sam's back lightly; it was quite warm to the touch. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry," he breathed.  
  
Sam stirred slightly and answered, " 'Tisn't your fault, Mr. Frodo. I probably caught it from my relations. It's been going around."  
  
"But I still feel responsible, with you taking care of me and all," Frodo countered. "Well, now I get to take care of you. Neither of us will be going anywhere with that storm." Sam would have objected, but a wave of nausea swept over him, and he fought back the urge to throw up. Frodo observed his situation and handed him a basin, which Sam took gratefully. "All right. I'll get you some tea, after I take care of that blasted shutter. And don't"-he continued, shaking a reproving finger at Sam-"even *think* about getting up or I'll have your hide." Sam nodded meekly and Frodo left the room. He dashed back in half a moment later. "I think I'll need some clothes," he said sheepishly. Had he not felt as dizzy and nauseated, Sam would've laughed outright at the mental picture of Frodo out in the wind, trying to refasten the shutter, in his nightshirt. Frodo left again after a minute or two, this time fully-and warmly-dressed.  
  
The cause of all the noise was the shutter on the study's small window; it had managed to work loose of its latch. It took Frodo a couple of tries to wrestle the recalcitrant shutter back to its proper place with the wind swirling around him, trying to push him face-first into the frozen crust of snow on the ground.  
  
By the time Frodo got back in Bag End, his fingers felt like icicles and his ears and feet were numb. He stood as close to the kitchen fire as he could get without burning himself or singeing the hair off his feet, warming himself while waiting for the kettle to boil. It seemed to take forever; Frodo was beginning to feel tired from his exertions and just wanted to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.  
  
Sam was awake and half sitting up against the pillows when Frodo finally came back, tea pot and cups in hand. "All right, Sam, time for some tea!" he said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster. He hoped Sam would cooperate-he didn't have the energy to force Sam to do anything. Frodo may be older, but Sam was stronger.  
  
Sam looked at him miserably; his face seemed to turn a little green at the thought, and he slowly shook his head. Frodo sighed as he put the tea things on the table next to the bed. "Sam, you must drink something. How about just some water?" Sam still shook his head. 'How can I get him to drink something?' Then Frodo had an idea. It was rather immature, but it just might work...  
  
Frodo crossed his arms and said, "Fine. But I'm not drinking anything until you do." 'Please let this work,' he pleaded inwardly.  
  
Sam took the bait, his face now holding a look of astonishment and bewilderment. "That's...that's not fair! That's blackmail!" Sam spluttered weakly.  
  
Laughing now, Frodo answered, "Yes, it is. But if it gets you to cooperate... It's for your own good, you know."  
  
Sam sighed, resigned. "All right, I'll drink something." He shot Frodo a glare. "But only so you will."  
  
Frodo patted his shoulder and handed him a cup of the ginger tea. "That was the idea." 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Aren't you glad I remembered to post this before I left to go home? ;) Many thanks to everyone who has been faithfully reviewing; I'd list you by name but I don't have the time to look it up right now... my family is coming in less than 20 minutes to pick up me and my stuff, and I'm not done packing yet, and I'm trying to eat lunch, and all sorts of other things...  
  
Anyway, hope you enjoy this, the last chapter!  
  
Chapter 10  
  
After a few hours, it was readily apparent that Sam had indeed caught the flu from Frodo. He threw up several times, though he always managed to get it in the basin, so Frodo didn't have to do much to clean up. Sam slept most of the time, and Frodo did what he could for him in between short naps of his own. Occasionally he would sponge Sam off to help with his fever, though for the most part his temperature remained steady and never spiked worryingly high.  
  
Painfully aware of what the lack of fluids could do, Frodo forced Sam to drink as much as he could, especially after he threw up. Sam, in turn, ensured that Frodo took his own advice, and took it one step further, insisting that Frodo eat. "I'll bet you haven't had anything all day," Sam stated accusingly.  
  
"So what if I haven't? It would probably make me puke anyway," Frodo argued.  
  
"I won't drink a drop until you eat something," Sam maintained.  
  
Frodo decided to change tactics. He crossed his arms defiantly and retorted, "How do you know I didn't eat anything while you were asleep? I'm awake more often than you are, you know." The ruse might've worked if his stomach hadn't rumbled hungrily, so he had to drop the pretense. "All right, all right. I'll go find some soup or something, but only if you try to eat a little, too."  
  
Sam reluctantly agreed, though the suggestion sent his stomach into knots. "I'll try, but no promises."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Frodo was relieved when the soup stayed down, but poor Sam was not so lucky. Neither that nor the tea stayed long in his unsettled stomach. Sam felt quite miserable, and was suitably impressed that Frodo had managed to do as much as he did while feeling this bad or worse, probably worse.  
  
Frodo was feeling better than he had, but his increasing anxiety about Sam weighed on his mind and robbed him of any appetite he may have regained. He didn't tell Sam this, of course, for then the younger hobbit would undoubtedly declare he'd made a miraculous recovery or somesuch nonsense just to set Frodo's mind at ease.  
  
The only thing that would truly make Frodo less concerned about their situation was the end of the storm. Once the storm ended, he could fetch the healer, or send someone to get the healer. His recent experience made him quite paranoid, having realized the deadly potential of even the simplest illnesses, if left untended. He was still quite shaken by the knowledge that he could've died from something as normal as the flu. When he said something about it the morning of the second day of the storm, Sam said he was being ridiculous about the whole thing, but Frodo still felt he'd rather be safe than sorry. He'd hold himself personally responsible if anything terrible happened to Sam because of him.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The storm raged on for two more days, with stinging, howling winds and frigid temperatures. Both ailing hobbits stayed safely indoors, barely ever leaving the snug warmth of the bed. Frodo was slowly recovering; and after his symptoms peaked on his second day of being ill, Sam also began to show signs of improvement. Nonetheless, Frodo still anxiously awaited the end of the storm.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
As Frodo slowly surfaced from the world of dreams early in the morning of the fourth day of the storm, he realized something was different. *Something* had changed, but what?  
  
The wind. It had stopped howling. The storm was over. Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. Now as soon as Mister Gamgee came by, Frodo could ask him to fetch Dr. Proudfoot for Sam. The day before he had come to the conclusion that he shouldn't get the doctor himself. He could think of several people-Sam, Miss Bolger, and Mister Gamgee, to name a few-who would throttle him senseless if he went out in the cold, still having not completely recovered from the flu; that is, if he didn't catch his death of pneumonia from the excursion!  
  
Besides, Sam really did seem to be getting better on his own, so getting the doctor was not a crucial matter. If asked, Sam would deny he even needed a doctor, 'just like I would,' Frodo thought wryly. But his perspective had changed somewhat, and he just wanted to be absolutely sure Sam would be all right.  
  
Sam shifted in his sleep and rolled over, now facing Frodo with a look of distress. Frodo reached over and clasped his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. Sam unconsciously returned the squeeze, his features relaxing back into the peace of deep sleep. Frodo allowed himself to drift off as well, relieved that he had successfully overcome the first major crisis of his adult life. 


End file.
